I Cannot Love You as You Want to be Loved
       

I cannot love you
as you want to be loved—
without wanting.
I cannot love you
without loving your black startled eyes—
without wanting them to look at me.
Without wanting to see them
catch fire
as they look at me.

I cannot love you
without loving your thighs—
the long lovely line of your thighs.
Without wanting to run my hand
along the length of them.
I cannot love you
without loving your hands—
so strong, so talkative.
Without wanting them to touch me,
to touch my hand,
my thigh.
I cannot love
you as you want to be loved—
without wanting.

You are a blade
I have lifted from my own hand
to put a stop to wounding.
Who made you so sharp,
so dangerous?
I miss your laughter
and your flights of fancy.
Your foolishness,
your wild untamable ways.
I miss your passion for things—
your refusal to take life quietly.

You are a blade
I have lifted from my own hand
to put a stop to wounding.
Who made you so sharp?
so dangerous?
You whose love words
were like a bounty;
a burst of grace,
oiled and perfumed—
each one a healing,
a benediction.
You whose eyes were pools
stars might bathe in.

You are a knife
I have lifted from my own hand
to put a stop to wounding.
You should be the earth I lie down upon,
the river that carries me,
the bright sky that covers me,
the wind that sings through the lilac.
Who made you a blade
I cannot dare to handle?

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Copyright © 2017 Mary Dorcey All rights reserved
from To Air the Soul, Throw All the Windows Wide
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission